


Out of Step

by prettysailorsoldier



Series: 25 Days of Johnlock [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ballet Dancer Sherlock, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, First Time, John Plays Rugby, M/M, Office Sex, balletlock, rugby!john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 09:17:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2807351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettysailorsoldier/pseuds/prettysailorsoldier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i><b>Prompt:</b> Balletlock, with Sherlock dancing in The Nutcracker as the Nutcracker, and John is a stage guy, and they start a showmance or something - bestcoastisthewestcoast</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Prompt:</b> Nutcrackerlock! - anon</i>
</p>
<p>John is surprisingly at peace with the recent changes in his life, taking a job as the rugby coach at a secondary school after being discharged from the army, but, when he finds out being part of the school community also means helping out with the annual Christmas production, he's slightly less keen on the whole affair. That is, until an old pupil of the dance teacher shows up, a man by the name of Sherlock Holmes, but will their backstage romance be a box office hit, or a grade A blunder?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of Step

**Author's Note:**

> **References:**  
>  "Candy canes", "reed flutes", and "snowflakes" refer to specific sections of _The Nutcracker_ ballet.
> 
> Also, I MADE A [25 DAYS OF JOHNLOCK PLAYLIST](http://8tracks.com/prettysailorsoldier/25-days-of-johnlock)!!
> 
> Obviously, I'm way behind on these, and there's no way I'm going to get caught up before Christmas, but they will all be written, they're just taking a lot longer than I thought because I cannot for the life of me keep them to a remotely reasonable length.
> 
> While I cannot guarantee I will be able to write your prompt, there is always a lot of overlap and/or combining, so feel free to keep submitting them to me up until the end of the series! You can leave your prompts in comments here on ao3, or on [my Tumblr](http://thelittlebitofeverythinggirl.tumblr.com/).

A whistle blared out over the pitch, two dozen teenagers freezing in place as they turned simultaneously toward the sound.

John smiled, releasing the plastic instrument from his lips to click against the zipper of his jacket. “Alright, that’s enough for today!” he bellowed, and the boys broke into tired sounds of joyous relief, jogging back in toward him as he beckoned with a hand. “I’ll see you back here Friday, but we’ll take it easy because of the Saturday game.”

“Um, coach?” Tyler Morris piped up, lifting a hand to his shoulder, and then dropping it as John turned to him. “There’s a rehearsal for the Christmas show after class on Friday,” he said sheepishly, glancing around at his fellow players for support, “so…well, some of us might be late.”

“I know,” John assured, smiling as he nodded at the boy, and then looked out over the rest of the group. “Those of you in the Christmas show, just come after rehearsal; it’s not a problem,” he announced to the team at large. “We’ll mostly just be going over plays at the beginning anyway. Now hit the showers!” he shouted, and they scampered off, pushing and racing one another as they went.

John chuckled as he watched, shaking his head at their retreating backs, and then walked out onto the pitch, beginning to gather up the practice cones. He picked up one of the rugby balls, turning it over in his hands, and then turned back to the stands, lobbing it over toward the bag he’d forgotten to bring out with him. It landed just in front of it, bouncing once before rolling to a stop atop the mesh, and John chuckled, happy to see he still had his aim, at least.

He had played rugby all through secondary school and university, and probably could have gone further if he hadn’t joined the army, but, alas, he’d ended up back in it anyway, returning to coaching after he’d been discharged. He still played recreationally, though it would never quite be the same—both a bullet to the shoulder and turning 38 taking their toll on his athleticism—but he was still the best player in their league, a small accomplishment he nevertheless took great pride in. He’d worked in clinics a little when he had first come back, picking up hours here and there, but going from saving a man’s leg in the desert to telling paranoid parents their child did not have avian flu was, as it turned out, not a shift he was able to make, and, when Mike had mentioned the opening at a nearby secondary school for a rugby coach, John had jumped on the opportunity. It was different, that’s for sure, a whole new kind of warzone, but John enjoyed it. At least he was never bored.

“Coach Watson!”

He turned to find Mary Morstan walking toward him, one of the English teachers they had on staff.

She was a few years younger than John, with short blond hair and a bright smile, and John thought they might have been flirting for months now, ever since he took the job. He wasn’t quite sure enough to risk asking her out, however, and, though he was only a coach, it would still probably be frowned upon.

“You know you don’t have to call me that,” he said, smiling at her as he walked to meet her on the pitch, and she chuckled.

“I know,” she chirped, shrugging a shoulder, “but I like to.” She smirked, and John laughed, glancing down at the papers cradled in her arms.

“Well, what can Coach Watson do for you, Miss Morstan?” he asked, and she grinned, shaking her head at him as she shifted the items in her grasp.

“I actually have a favor to ask,” she said, smiling shyly. “Kind of a weird one. I’m sure you’ve heard about the Christmas show coming up,” she started, and John nodded. “Well, it’s sort of a big deal. The whole community turns up—it’s become a bit of a tradition—and, well, this year…we might have been a little too ambitious.” She grimaced up at him, pulling a folder from the middle of the pile and passing it across. “We always include a segment of _A Christmas Carol_ ,” she explained as John opened the folder, detailed drawings of what appeared to be a set design for Scrooge’s office looking up at him, “as well as some performances from the band, the choir, even numbers from _The Nutcracker_ for the dance students.” She smiled brightly, but John just quirked a brow, sure the hammer was about to drop. “But, this year, Irene,” she said, rolling her eyes over the woman’s name, the drama teacher and self-proclaimed director of the Christmas show always eliciting that reaction from people, it seemed, “wanted to go all out, make proper sets and everything, and…well, we were hoping you could help.” She lifted her shoulders, smiling through a sheepish wince. “Aaron said you have tools,” she added, bobbing her head back toward the school, as if the music director would suddenly appear, “and that you helped him with his deck a few months ago. He’s been trying to get it done, but, with all the work he’s doing with the band…” She tipped her head, lifting her brows, the rest of the explanation self-explanatory. “We have Molly and her students for the painting, so you wouldn’t have to help with that if you didn’t want to, but, at the moment, they have nothing to paint.” She shrugged, fidgeting with the folders and pages clasped in her arms. “I know you have a lot of work with the team, but even a few hours here and there would make a _huge_ -”

“It’s fine,” John interjected, smiling as he nodded at her widening eyes. “I’d be happy to help. This weekend’s the last game before break anyway, so next week is just gonna be regular practice.”

“Really?” Mary asked, gusting with relief as John nodded. “Oh, thank god! Seriously, you’re a saint- No, an angel!” she urged, and John laughed, holding his hands out for the bundle of paper as she passed it across. “These are just the concept drawings and such,” she muttered, waving a hand over the pile. “Every scene has at least six different versions, but you just do whatever you think makes the most sense. Irene’s very good at coming up with ideas, but she falls a little short in the realistic expectations department, ya know?”

John chuckled, nodding as he flipped through a few of the pages. “None of these look too difficult,” he said, smiling as he closed the folder. “I’ll see what I can come up with and then run it by her, alright?” he offered, and Mary beamed.

“Yeah, that sounds good, and thanks again, John, really.” She reached forward, laying a hand lightly on his arm for a moment, and he smiled down at the ground, shaking his head.

“No problem,” he assured as she withdrew. “Least I can do.”

Mary smiled, looking like she might be about to say something else, but John had to cut her off as he saw a particular student leaving the locker room.

“Alden!” he bellowed, Tom Alden jumping as he whirled toward him. “Show up late again and it’s five laps for every minute, ya hear?” he barked, and the boy blushed even from here, nodding his head at his trainers as he shuffled them through the grass.

“Yes, Coach,” he replied, and John nodded, dismissing him to run off after his friends.

“Wow,” Mary murmured, folding her arms as she turned to watch the boy. “If only I could get him to listen like that in my class,” she said, and John laughed.

“Maybe you should try shouting,” he suggested, and Mary scoffed, waving a hand through the air.

“Naw, don’t think it would have the same effect. I don’t have that deep voice to back it up,” she added with a smirk, and John laughed, Mary chuckling softly along. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said, turning away with a flick of a wave, which John returned.

“Yeah, see ya,” he replied, and then turned back to face the pitch, looking down at the pile of paper in his hands. He sighed, scraping his thumb along the side of the bundle before once again opening the folder.

The designs did look simple enough, he hadn’t been lying about that, but it would take some time, and the show was only two weeks away. Hopefully Aaron could still help out a bit, and he could probably rope in a few others, maybe even convince some of his players to help out, talk to the design and technology staff about giving them extra credit.

He snapped the folder shut, tucking the bundle of paper under his arm as he bent to pick up another rugby ball, confident there wouldn’t be any problems getting everything done. That is, provided there were no more surprises.

*****

“Legs a little higher, girls! Anthony, what are you doing? Get off the stage! Honestly, we’re all too old for this!”

John chuckled, shaking his head down at the base he was currently constructing, safety goggles continually sliding down his nose as he drilled in nails.

“No, no, far too stiff! You’re reed flutes, girls, not logs!”

John snorted, looking up from his spot in the shadows.

The girls twirling around on stage looked perfectly fine to him, but Mrs. Hudson didn’t appear to agree, frowning as she shook her head from the front of the stage.

“Let’s just call it a night,” the ballet instructor sighed, waving a hand, and the girls fell from their toes, everyone trickling out from the wings to await instruction. “We’ll start with the candy canes tomorrow. And you’d better be ready, Anthony,” she snapped, pointing to a particular young man near the back of the group. “Any more shenanigans and I’ll put you in with the snowflakes.”

“But those are all girls!” the teenager snapped back, horrified. “And they’re, like…10!”

“Guess you’d better behave tomorrow, then, hmm?” Mrs. Hudson replied, quirking a brow, and the boy wisely fell silent, folding his hands in front of him. “Right, then!” she chirped, clapping her hands. “See you all tomorrow! And don’t leave rubbish around the stage! The custodian found a _shoe_ back here on Monday, for heaven’s sake.”

John smiled, standing up to survey his work as the kids filed out, Mrs. Hudson still shaking her head as she approached him.

“Honestly, who loses a shoe?” she muttered, and John laughed, rattling his glasses off and hooking them into the pocket of his jeans.

“No idea,” he replied, and the woman snorted, looking back into the wing behind them.

“Well, at least you’re making progress,” she said, stepping back to look over the slowly growing row of set pieces. “What’s this, a bed?” she asked, and John nodded.

“Yeah, for Scrooge’s bedroom,” he supplied, those sorts of phrases entirely normal to him now after a week of working on the show. “This is gonna be one of your lollipops,” he said, kicking lightly at his current project, one of the massive sweets intended to frame the stage for the _Nutcracker_ portion of the show.

Mrs. Hudson leaned in, gripping onto his arm as she shook her head fondly down at the unfinished piece. “John, really, I don’t know how you’re managing all this,” she said, looking up at him concernedly. “You must be here all the time! You’re here during all our practices, at least.”

“Well, maybe I arrange it that way,” he said, shrugging as he grinned down at the woman. “Make sure I get to see you,” he added, and the woman giggled, blushing a little as she smacked him lightly on the arm.

“Stop it, my heart can’t take that kind of talk!” she laughed, and John scoffed.

“That’s ridiculous,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I saw you working with Elaine the other day on Clara’s part during the waltz. Your…leg…thing,” he muttered, waving a hand uselessly in the air, and Mrs. Hudson nearly bent in half with laughter, “was just as good as hers. I’m sure your heart can handle plenty.”

Mrs. Hudson chuckled, tapping him gently on the bicep before releasing his arm. “Well, either way,” she sighed, stepping away with a smile, “I’m sure your heart is already taken, and I’m not the home-wrecking type, Dr. Watson.”

John huffed a frail laugh, twisting his fingers together as he shook his head at the stage floor. “No, you’re free and clear with that one,” he said, and she frowned, tilting her head at him. “No home to wreck,” he added, shrugging as he turned his left hand up in demonstration.

“What?!” Mrs. Hudson blurted, incredulous, and John actually jumped a bit, it was so sudden. “You- No one?” she pressed, stepping closer as she searched his face. “No one special in your life at all?”

John smiled, shaking his head. “Not at the moment,” he replied, trying to sound slightly less pathetic, and Mrs. Hudson sighed, rolling her eyes to the ceiling with a helpless gesture.

“Well, then I guess there’s _absolutely_ no hope for the rest of us,” she muttered, and John laughed, a small smile curling the woman’s lips.

“I don’t know about that,” John said, smirking down at her. “Maybe I’ve just been waiting for the right woman,” he added with a wink, and Mrs. Hudson smacked him across the chest as she burst into laughter once more.

“Mrs. Hudson?” a deep voice said, and they both turned, listening to footsteps climb the steps at the side of the stage.

“Over here, dear!” the woman beckoned, and John frowned, tilting his head at her before turning to a figure emerging from the shadows.

The man was tall, with dark hair and grey eyes that sparkled like they knew something you didn’t, and he was impeccably dressed, a grey button-down leading to black trousers and polished shoes. He was pale and thin, but not frail, the movement of his arms hinting at the muscle beneath the sleeves, and he walked toward them in more of a glide than individual steps, everything about him radiating a quiet grace. His approach slowed a mere fraction as he set eyes on John, eyebrows twitching in curiosity, and then he continued, drawing up to Mrs. Hudson’s side.

The woman enveloped him in a tight hug, the man patting her lightly on the back with a soft—if a little uncomfortable—smile, and then she pulled away, beaming up at him. “Oh, it’s so good to see you, my boy,” she said, lifting a hand to cup her palm briefly to his cheek. “You haven’t changed a bit!”

“Well, you did only see me this past summer,” the man replied, half his mouth lifting as Mrs. Hudson laughed.

“Fair enough,” she chuckled, gripping onto his arm as she turned to John, who was suddenly feeling like an underdressed gatecrasher at a formal family reunion. “John, this is an old student of mine I managed to convince to help me out with the show, Sher-”

There was a loud crash behind them, Mrs. Hudson yelping as she jumped, but John only snapped his head to the sound, stepping forward and placing a hand to Mrs. Hudson’s arm, stopping just short of pulling her back.

A young boy was standing beside the prop table, face contorted in a wince as his hands hovered in the air over a metal candelabra that lay on the ground in front of him. “Sorry,” he muttered, hastily picking it up with fumbling hands as he replaced the prop on the table and darted away, and Mrs. Hudson tutted, shaking her head.

John withdrew his hand from her arm, his heartrate starting to slow, and then turned to find the newcomer’s eyes fixed on him, an odd intensity in his searching gaze.

“Anyway,” Mrs. Hudson snipped, and John managed to blink his eyes back to her, “as I was saying, this is-”

“Sherlock Holmes,” the man interjected, extending a hand and ignoring Mrs. Hudson’s glare, and John took it, smiling hesitantly.

“John Watson,” he replied, and the man smiled, giving him a small nod.

“John’s the rugby coach,” Mrs. Hudson explained, waving a hand to him as Sherlock let John’s drop. “He’s new this year, but the team already looks better than ever,” she said, flashing him a wink, and John ducked his head, shy at the praise. “Before that, he was-”

“In the army,” Sherlock finished, and John snapped his head up. Sherlock only smiled. “Afghanistan or Iraq?” he asked, and John could only blink at him for a moment.

“Um, Afghanistan,” he murmured, and then frowned, perplexed. “How did you-”

“Well, your posture, for one thing,” the man started, and John shifted between his feet, suddenly conscious of his rigid spine, “and the tan lines on your wrists. Clearly, you’ve spent a lot of time in the sun, but not on holiday, or else you would’ve been more careful. And then there was your reaction a moment ago,” he added, bobbing his head over toward the prop table. “I was fairly sure already, of course, but that confirmed it.” He looked back to John, blinking innocently, and John would almost have thought he’d imagined the whole thing if not for Mrs. Hudson’s shaking head, her face tight with disapproval as she looked up at Sherlock.

“I- Wow,” he stammered, lips fumbling over the syllables. “That-That was amazing.”

Sherlock blinked, both he and Mrs. Hudson fixing him with a look of absolute shock.

John looked between them, frowning in confusion, but then Sherlock spoke, confident tone suddenly barely audible.

“You think so?” he murmured, and John nodded, which seemed to only flummox the man further.

“Of course it was,” he assured, breaking into a smile, although he continued to receive only blank stares in return. “It was extraordinary! How did you-”

“John?”

He bobbed his head out around Sherlock’s shoulder, finding Irene walking down the aisle toward the stage, and couldn’t entirely suppress his grimace. He leaned back in, shuffling slightly to the right so Sherlock blocked her view. “You think she saw me?” he muttered to Mrs. Hudson, who opened her mouth, but her reply was cut short by another shrill shout.

“John!?”

He sighed, Mrs. Hudson chuckling as Sherlock smiled softly, and then stepped out, Irene’s eyes latching onto him immediately as she climbed the steps onto the stage. “Yes?” he said, and the woman’s eyes narrowed, her red-rimmed mouth snapping open before she pulled up short, blinking up and down Sherlock’s frame.

“Hello,” she said, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear, “and who might you be?”

Sherlock frowned, and then quirked a brow, looking over Irene’s shoulder to John for some reason, who only rolled his eyes. Sherlock’s lips twitched in a smile, and then he extended his hand. “Sherlock Holmes,” he said, and Irene tipped her head, eyebrows rising as she took the pale digits in her own.

“Irene Adler. Sherlock Holmes, that’s quite a name,” she drawled, and Mrs. Hudson joined the eye-rolling party. “Think you live up to it?” she added with a twist of a smirk, and Sherlock only smiled, though he looked like he very dearly wanted to laugh.

“I try,” he replied, and Irene beamed, something bitter suddenly coating John’s tongue.

“You wanted to see me?” he interjected, and the woman turned around, blinking like she’d quite forgotten the rest of the world.

“What? Oh, right,” she muttered, flipping a hand through the air. “I was wondering where you were on the bedframe. I was gonna have some of Molly’s art students stain it tomorrow.”

“It’s done,” John said, waving a hand back to the bed. “Sanded it earlier. Should be good to go.”

Irene lifted her brows, evidently impressed. “Guess you’re ahead of schedule then,” she chirped, smiling brightly, and John was quick to shake his head.

“Not really. I’m just trying to get the big pieces out of the way first. Should have most of the sweets done by the end of the week.” He gestured down to the giant lollipop behind them, and Irene followed the wave, nodding her approval.

“Good,” she clipped, “sooner we can get started on painting, the better.” She then turned back, beaming over her shoulder at Sherlock. “Lovely to meet you,” she purred, and John’s eyes shot into the stratosphere and back. “Don’t be a stranger, alright?”

“Highly unlikely,” Sherlock answered, polite, but not eager. “I’m helping Mrs. Hudson with the ballet numbers.”

“Oh, really?” Irene asked, brow furrowing in inquiry. “You dance?”

Sherlock’s jaw stiffened only the scantest of seconds, his lips pressing flat before he hitched them back up. “I used to,” he replied with a stiff nod, and then slid a step back. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting to get to. I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said to Mrs. Hudson, smiling fondly as he gripped briefly to her arm, and then lifted his chin. “Miss Adler,” he bade, dipping his head, and then shifted his grey eyes to John. “John,” he added, and maybe it was only wishful thinking, but John would’ve sworn his tone dipped a little lower, a little softer, and there was a slight twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth before he turned, gliding across the stage in his polished shoes.

John stared after him dumbly for a moment, and then sucked in a breath, unaware he’d stopped until the sting in his lungs alerted him. Thankfully, no one else appeared to have noticed, and Irene sighed heavily beside him, shaking her head as she stared after him.

“Such a shame,” she mused. “The pretty ones are always gay.”

“That’s not fair,” John snapped, frowning at her. “Just because he’s ‘ _pretty_ ’,” he muttered, curling his fingers around the word, “and does ballet doesn’t mean he’s gay.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Mrs. Hudson interjected, stepping to his side as she clapped a hand to his shoulder in solidarity, “but, in this case…” She trailed off, tipping her head, and then smiled at John’s incredulous expression, tapping her hand once over his shoulder before moving away.

“It’s not even about the ballet, anyway,” Irene said, the three of them moving toward the stairs. “Any man who doesn’t flirt with _me_ has got to be gay.”

“I don’t flirt with you,” John countered, and Irene just grinned.

“Then I suggest you do some soul-searching,” she quipped, and Mrs. Hudson laughed as John rolled his eyes. “Any man who likes women would flirt with me.”

“Oh, I like women,” John chimed. “Maybe the problem is that you’re something else.”

Irene sneered at him, and he beamed back, Mrs. Hudson just chuckling at the both of them. “Please,” Irene scoffed, waving an airy hand through the hair, “I’m the _only_ woman.”

John shook his head, smiling in spite of himself, and Irene grinned, their group slowing as they neared a juncture in the corridors, all of them heading different directions.

“I’ll check in with you both tomorrow,” Irene said, starting down in the direction of her office, and then paused, twisting on her heels to face them. “Mrs. Hudson,” she said grandly, sinking into more of a bow than a nod. “John,” she added with a lecherous wink, and John’s stomach leapt with embarrassment, his face catching fire as the two women laughed.

He smiled, shaking his head at them, and then started off toward his own office, happy to suffer the humiliation if it meant he hadn’t been imagining things after all.

*****

“I don’t know.”

“She’ll be fine.”

“I’m just not sure she’s the right _fit_.”

“You had me up until 11:30 last night talking about this; we both know you’re not going to recast.”

“You would’ve been up anyway.”

“That’s not the _point_!”

“I’m just trying to-”

“Oi!” John snapped, lifting his head from where he was drilling the final screws into a nine-foot candy cane, the bickering figures of Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson blurry through his plastic goggles. “Elaine is great,” he said, sitting up as he peeled the glasses away. “You’re just mad because she said she was surprised you could still do the moves at your age,” he added, nodding his head at Mrs. Hudson, whose mouth dropped open while Sherlock lifted a hand to cover his.

Mrs. Hudson noticed regardless, however, slapping the brunette across the arm, and Sherlock gave up the pretense, laughing outright.

“She meant it as a compliment,” John contested, lifting his hands as the woman snatched up her purse.

“Watch yourself, Watson,” she snapped, pointing a finger up at him, and, though John was already several feet away, he recoiled even further under her glare. “Those baby blues won’t get you out of everything.”

“What?!” John gasped, lifting a hand to his chest, blinking in exaggerated shock. “But that’s my retirement plan!”

Mrs. Hudson scoffed, stomping up the aisle to the exit, and John just smiled, turning his gaze to where Sherlock was laughing with abandon.

It was a rare sound, not heard much in the five days or so since John had met the man, but he hoped to hear it much more in the week they had left until the Christmas show, before Sherlock would go back to…well, wherever it was he had come from.

They’d spent quite a bit of time together over the past few days, talking idly when Sherlock wasn’t needed or John wasn’t working on anything particularly loud, but never about anything of significance. Maybe it was the fact that they were always surrounded by people and music and bright lights, the atmosphere not exactly conducive to heart-to-hearts, or that John was always fairly flustered, Sherlock standing so close to him with his leotard and sweat-sheened brow, but, whatever the reason, they’d stuck mostly to small talk, neutral subjects that came and went without leaving anything in their wake.

John wanted to know, though. He wanted to know everything, wanted to know why Sherlock always clicked the cap of his water bottle twice after he took a drink, why he talked about Mrs. Hudson like he’d known her his whole life, why no one ever mentioned any other family, and, mostly, why he only talked about ballet in the past tense.

Sherlock was incredible, transcendent of incredible, even. All the girls in the numbers were always too distracted watching him to learn the steps he was trying to show them, and John couldn’t blame them, nearly shooting a nail into his own hand at least five times. He was just so goddamn _beautiful_ , pale skin stretched over miles of muscle, and even John—who knew absolutely nothing about ballet—was entirely captivated by the way he moved, like he was suspended in air, dangling from the ceiling more than leaping from the ground.

John didn’t know how he’d managed to get anything done the past few days, and it didn’t help that he was fairly certain Mrs. Hudson had noticed, always drifting off to do something as soon as John approached, leaving the two of them alone. Not that they were doing anything worthwhile with that time, and, as Sherlock climbed the stairs toward him, John standing up and brushing the dust from his hands, he doubted that was about to change.

“Did Elaine really say that?” Sherlock asked, and John nodded, prompting a chuckle from the brunette. “I’m surprised she survived,” he said, and John laughed.

“It was touch and go there for a minute,” he admitted, tipping his head as he came around the candy cane to Sherlock’s side. “If looks could kill, she’d have been a goner,” he added, and Sherlock smiled.

They fell silent then, the stillness of the empty theater pressing on John’s ears, and then he jumped, his mobile ringing in his pocket.

With an apologetic smile, he answered it, swiping the answer key and lifting the phone to his ear. “Hello?” he said, Mike’s voice greeting him.

“John, hey! We have a game Friday, right?” he asked, and John nodded, forgetting a moment he’d have to speak.

“Yeah, 5:30. Why?”

“Where is it?” the man muttered, and John rolled his eyes.

“I gave you _another_ schedule last week!” he blustered, and Sherlock smiled softly as John shook his head at him, trying to find a comrade in this ridiculous conversation the man couldn’t even hear.

“I know, I know!” Mike urged, and John just sighed.

“It’s at Kentling,” he muttered, a pause on the other end of the line as Mike hopefully wrote it down.

“Kentling,” the man murmured back at him. “Alright, see ya then!”

“Bye,” John replied, shaking his head again as he ended the call.

“Kentling Park?” Sherlock asked, and John nodded, looking up at the man as he slipped his mobile into his back pocket.

“Yeah, we play rugby there sometimes. I’m in a league,” he explained, rolling a hand through the air, and Sherlock nodded, eyes drifting away. John opened his mouth, then closed it, hesitating, and then figured it was about time _somebody_ made a move. “You wanna come?” he asked, words quick off his tongue, and Sherlock snapped his face up with a frown. John swallowed, shrugging a shoulder. “Lots of the other teachers do,” he muttered, “even Mrs. Hudson sometimes. Not to play, of course,” he blurted, and Sherlock chuckled, “but to watch. I mean, it’ll probably be cold, but-”

“Alright,” Sherlock interjected, and John just stared at him a moment, certain he’d misheard.

“Al-Alright?” he echoed, and Sherlock smiled, nodding as he dropped his face.

“Yes,” he said, lifting his chin. “I’ll go. 5:30, right?”

John blinked, mouth hovering open a moment before he could make it form words. “Um, yeah,” he stammered, rattling a nod. “At, um-”

“Kentling Park,” Sherlock finished, and John snapped his mouth shut, swallowing as a blush crept up his cheeks. Sherlock smiled, shuffling backward as he retreated toward the steps. “See you Friday, then,” he said, lifting a hand in farewell, and John rattled his head, shaking the shock loose.

“Yeah,” he croaked, clearing his throat, “see you Friday.”

Sherlock grinned, broad and bright, and then turned, John unashamedly watching his ass shift in his trousers until he was gone through the door.

John blew out a breath, running a hand back through his hair as he began to pace along the length of the candy cane. “It’s a rugby game,” he sternly reminded himself, hands flicking through the air in front of his chest. “Lots of people go. I _told_ him lots of people go. It’s not a date. It’s not,” he insisted, and then just stopped, trainers coming to a halt on the stage floor as he let the grin break free on his face, because he totally, absolutely, _impossibly_ had a date with Sherlock Holmes.

*****

True to John’s word, it was cold that Friday night, but Sherlock showed up anyway, his striding figure unmistakable even mostly obscured by a flowing trench coat. John was already on the pitch by then, unable to do anything in the way of greeting, but he made sure to be noticed, playing harder for the knowledge of Sherlock’s eyes on him.

The second the whistle blew—announcing their victory, of course—John jogged to the sidelines, choosing to ignore the sweat and dirt he was sure plastered his body.

“You came!” he blurted as he drew to where Sherlock had reached the base of the stands, apparently a teenager again, but Sherlock only smiled.

“That was the agreement,” he replied, and John smiled sheepishly, scrubbing a hand at the back of his neck.

“Well, yeah, but-”

“Sherlock!?”

John turned, spotting his teammate Greg Lestrade walking toward them, eyes fixed on the tall brunette.

“My god, it is you!” he cried, grinning broadly as he drew up to John’s side. “What are you doing back in town?”

John frowned, looking between the two of them, a suspicion forming in his mind and curdling his stomach. “You two…know each other?” he murmured, pointing between the men, and, though Sherlock opened his mouth, it was Greg who answered.

“Sherlock used to help me out on cases for the Yard,” he said, and John blinked, mouth dropping wide as he snapped his face to Sherlock.

“I consulted,” the brunette muttered, tipping his head to John with an apologetic twist of a smile, but Greg scoffed.

“He did a sight more than that, but you always preferred that title, didn’t you? Consulting Detective.” He chuckled, and Sherlock smiled, dropping his face as he shuffled his feet. “Gosh, I haven’t seen you since…what? Just after you graduated? Before the Royal Ballet snapped you up.”

“You were in the Royal Ballet?” John asked, stomach sinking with the weight of everything he didn’t know.

“I- Yes,” Sherlock muttered, nodding curtly as he clasped his hands behind his back. “For a time.”

“What, you mean you’re not anymore?” Lestrade asked, tipping his head with a frown, blinking in surprise when Sherlock shook his head. “But, why not? Weren’t you, like, a prodigy or something?”

John felt suddenly very out of place, once again caught between two people with a history he was horrendously uncomfortable encroaching on, but Sherlock looked even _more_ uncomfortable, scraping his teeth over his lip as he nodded to the ground with a shrug.

“I- I was, but- Well, you know,” he muttered, rattling his head as he looked off to the left. “Things…change. And then I got injured, so-”

“You what?” Lestrade interjected, a concern in his eyes that made John narrow his. “You were injured?” he pressed, but Sherlock only shrugged again, inching ever so slightly back away from the conversation.

“It happens,” he mumbled. “I was planning to retire anyway. Ballet never is a long-term career.”

“So, what are you doing now?” Lestrade continued, and John wanted to pull him away, to shake him and ask just how obtuse he really was, because Sherlock very clearly did _not_ want to be talking about this.

“I, um-” Sherlock stammered, and, from his angle, John could see the man’s fingers twisting anxiously behind his back. “I’m not quite-”

“Sorry,” John interjected, lifting a hand between them to sever the conversation, “I don’t wanna interrupt, but, um, we should probably get going.” He cast a pointed look at Sherlock, who frowned for only a blink before returning to politely impassive, and then turned to Greg. “We’ve got a meeting at the school tonight,” he completely lied, smiling as he bobbed his head to include Sherlock. “Sherlock’s helping Mrs. Hudson out with the Christmas show.”

“Really?” Lestrade blurted, eyes widening with shock. “You? Helping? With children!?”

“They’re mostly teenagers,” Sherlock muttered, and Lestrade laughed.

“That’s even worse!” he exclaimed, and John chuckled, unable to disagree with that. “Well, I won’t keep you, then,” he said, smiling as he began to step away. “We’ll have to catch up sometime though. Maybe grab a pint. I can run a few cold cases by you,” he added with a wink, and Sherlock chuckled, nodding with a slightly more genuine smile.

“Sounds good,” he replied, and Lestrade smiled, tossing them both a short wave before heading off across the pitch.

They watched him go in silence, John aware of Sherlock’s eyes on him even as his remained averted.

“There’s not really a meeting at the school, is there?” the brunette asked, and John smiled, dropping his face to the ground as he shook his head.

“No,” he murmured, peeking up through his lashes, “I just- Well, you- It just seemed-”

“So, you’re free.”

John blinked, frowning up at the man, who looked entirely innocent except for the glint in his eyes. “I- What?” John murmured, and Sherlock smiled.

“If there’s not a meeting at the school,” he said with smug tilt of his head, “then I presume you’re free for the evening.”

John’s stomach leapt, heart stalling before starting to thunder in his throat. “I- Yes.”

Sherlock grinned, dropping his face as he nodded. “Good,” he said, and then lifted his chin again with a smirk. “How do you feel about Italian?”

John blinked several times before he was sure he wasn’t hallucinating, the corners of Sherlock’s lips twitching as his own flapped soundlessly. “I, um- It’s-It’s fine, I guess, but I-”

“Great,” Sherlock clipped, and then turned, beckoning John with a flick of his head as he started back toward the street. “I know a place. It’s not far.”

John was frozen for a moment, and then rattled his head, rushing back to grab his bag before jogging a few steps to catch up. “But I- I’m not- I have to shower,” he argued feebly, but Sherlock just shook his head.

“Don’t worry, nobody else will be there. Antonio always gives me the private room,” he said, and John frowned, growing more confused by the second on who exactly Sherlock even _was_ , solving crimes and dining in hidden back rooms of mysterious Italian restaurants.

“Why?” was all John asked, however, and Sherlock shrugged.

“I helped him prove he was burgling houses a while back,” he answered, shaking his head down at John’s perplexed expression. “It’s a long story,” he muttered, but John only drew up closer to his side.

“I’ve got time,” he said, smiling when Sherlock’s wide eyes snapped to his, and, slowly, the man returned it, facing forward once more as he began.

“Well, he was accused of murder first.”

“He _what_!?”

“Do you want to hear the story or not?”

“Right, sorry. Carry on.”

*****

He should’ve kissed him.

Maybe not after dinner, when they’d parted in the tube station after letting a few trains pass them by, both pretending they hadn’t noticed it had been the right one until it was already rolling away; maybe not after coffee on Saturday, wandering along the waterfront, buying crepes from a vendor at John’s insistence and Sherlock’s feigned disgust; maybe not even after the practice Saturday evening, John coming in to paint, ostensibly, but mostly just to stare; but he _definitely_ should have kissed him after the practice, when they’d had dinner _again_ at some little Chinese place Sherlock had deemed worthy based on the bottom third of the door handle, of all things, but, of course, he hadn’t. He could’ve, he very clearly could’ve, the both of them lingering at the doorstep of John’s flat building, muttering nonsense here and there just to keep the evening from ending, but, instead, he’d panicked, turning the key and pushing inside with a brisk ‘goodnight’ and a ‘see you Monday’.

And, now, it _was_ Monday, and it was also extremely awkward, although that was possibly only in John’s head, Sherlock appearing entirely unaffected.

He’d talked to John normally in the breaks Mrs. Hudson allowed him or didn’t notice, helping occasionally when John needed something handed up to him where he stood on a ladder, beginning assembly for the show on Wednesday afternoon. He had smiled at John from the stage when he was working with the dancers on final tweaks, occasionally rolling his eyes when no one was looking, and John would grin back, shaking his head as he returned to his work in the wings.

Everything seemed entirely normal, and it was driving John _mad_ , so much, in fact, that he had forgotten his wallet, having to turn back for it when he’d realized nearly halfway home.

Grumbling to himself at his own stupidity, he marched through the back door of the auditorium, scowling down at the floor, and then stopped dead as he lifted his eyes, all the breath leaving his lungs in a soft puff of air.

The room appeared to be empty, all the lights off apart from the spotlights over the stage, where Sherlock spun, body a blur of pale skin and dark hair. He then stopped, bending down toward the floor before leaping away, gliding on his toes over the surface of the stage, and John couldn’t _breathe_ , stunned by the beauty of it, by the muscle straining beneath his tight black leggings, by the glimpses of pale chest the flapping of his loose grey t-shirt provided, by the sweat that glittered on his forehead as it caught the light, by the fluid push and pull of every step, every leap, every turn.

_BANG_

The door he had entered through rattled closed, startling them both, and, when John turned back from the solid expanse of metal, Sherlock was staring wide-eyed into the dark, scanning blindly over the wing.

“Sorry,” John muttered hastily, and Sherlock tilted his head, a soft frown creasing his shimmering forehead.

“John?” he panted, completely out of breath, and John was glad it was dark so Sherlock couldn’t see him close his eyes, trying to breath away a reaction to the rough, gravelly sound.

“I-I forgot my wallet,” he stammered, and he knew he ought to move, to step out into the light and have this conversation like proper adults, but he couldn’t, and, after a moment, Sherlock walked toward him instead.

“Okay,” he said skeptically, John’s throat growing tighter with every step he neared. He paused just in front of him, searching over John’s face with curious, narrowed eyes. “Are you…going to get it?” he asked, quirking a brow, and John probably should have been embarrassed at being so transparent, but he couldn’t be bothered, too focused on not breathing so he didn’t have to smell the sweet scent of Sherlock’s sweat.

“Yes,” he tried to say, but mostly croaked, and Sherlock blinked, almost startled, and then his eyes flicked frantically between John’s, expression growing more and more dumbfounded the longer he looked.

“John?” he prompted softly, so many questions condensed into that one word, it made John’s head spin.

He sucked in a breath to steady himself, and then only grew dizzier, Sherlock’s sweat blending with his cologne and flooding John’s stomach with flames. “What?” he replied, blinking to clear his vision, but that may not have helped, Sherlock only coming into starker relief inches from his face.

“Your wallet,” the brunette reminded, but his voice was soft, drifting closer to a whisper, and he didn’t move away when John couldn’t help himself from stepping closer.

“In a minute,” he murmured, not realizing he had lifted his hand until he saw his fingers on Sherlock jaw, grazing down toward his chin, his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s lips as they parted with a gasp.

“John,” the man panted, no question left in it at all, and, in a single swift motion, John stretched up onto his toes, tipping Sherlock’s chin down with his fingers to press their lips together.

He kept it chaste, turning his head just slightly to get a better angle as his hand trailed softly down Sherlock’s neck, and the brunette shuddered beneath the touch, his lips rattling away.

His eyes were too close to focus on clearly, but they seemed to shift between John’s, searching for something. Whatever it was, he either found it or didn’t, because, the next second, he was diving back to John’s mouth in a gust of a sigh that sent shivers down John’s spine, all restraint seeming to break loose as he crashed roughly onto his lips, hands gripping into the front of his green jumper.

John didn’t mean to moan, but he compensated by pushing a hand into Sherlock’s curls, tugging a similar sound out of the man to even it out, and then palmed one of Sherlock’s hipbones, yanking the man against him.

Sherlock fell into his chest with a gasp, and John slid off his mouth, kissing messily down Sherlock’s jaw, the man’s hands shifting to claw into John’s shoulder. “John!” he gasped as John scraped teeth over a collarbone, Sherlock’s sweat stinging at a small cut on his lip, and he lifted back up to his mouth, pulling Sherlock flush to his body.

He could barely feel Sherlock’s cock through the dancer’s belt and leggings, but he could read the reaction plainly enough, the man keening as John ground their hips together, Sherlock’s sitting slightly higher and pressing against his abdomen. Keeping one hand still tight in Sherlock’s hair, he pressed past the man’s teeth, tongue tangling roughly with Sherlock’s uncoordinated one as his other hand drifted around to Sherlock’s back, drifting lower over the base of his spine.

Sherlock moaned into his mouth as he slowly slid down, taking his time over the tight curve of the man’s ass, and then he gasped, neck snapping back as John gripped hard into the muscle, Sherlock’s hips thrusting against his reflexively.

“Fuck!” John blurted, a shudder running through him at the friction, and he was just about to suggest they adjourn somewhere a touch more private when a door opened somewhere in the room, and they leapt apart, panting and flushed and—for John’s part, at least—aching.

“Sherlock?” said a small voice from the back of the auditorium, obviously Mrs. Hudson, and they both moved further into the wing, making sure they couldn’t be seen from the seats. “Sherlock, are you here?” she called, waiting a moment, and then sighed, muttering to herself unintelligibly.

The door opened, and then closed again, both of them just panting in the dark, standing frozen several feet apart.

Pulse finally slowing from panicked pounding to just regular old lust-crazed pounding, John blew out a breath, turning to Sherlock’s shadowed face with a small smile. “Well,” he muttered, and Sherlock started, turning wide eyes to him, “that was close.” He chuckled airily, but quickly cut it off when Sherlock didn’t join in, the man looking closer to terrified than amused. “Sherlock?” John questioned, stepping closer, but the man matched it with a retreat.

“I-I should go,” he muttered, backing away even further, and John fell roughly back to Earth, the ground much colder than he remembered. “I- I can’t- This-This was-“

“What?” John prompted when the man did not continue, only fixing John with a helpless expression. “A mistake?” he offered faintly, and Sherlock winced, dropping his eyes and impaling John in the chest. He puffed out a shaky breath, taking a tentative step forward. “I-I don’t understand,” he murmured, shaking his head, and Sherlock swallowed hard, looking like a man in the deepest level of torment. “I mean, I thought- Why?”

Sherlock bit hard at his lip, eyes tight and averted, but he didn’t back away as John stepped closer.

“Why is it a mistake? I mean, I like you,” he said, waving a hand toward the man, who flinched, “and I-I think you like me too. Unless I’m crazy and just imagined that whole-”

“It just is, alright?” Sherlock snapped, but there was nothing like anger in his eyes, only naked fear and pain. “I-I can’t- I don’t do this.” He shook his head, staggering slowly back across the stage. “Relationships, I- They complicate things,” he muttered, growing firmer with every word, and John shook his head, feeling him slipping away.

“But-”

“I don’t want it, okay?!” he exclaimed, and John froze, startling at the shout. Sherlock dragged in air in rough heaves, hand shaking as he held it aloft. “I don’t want other people hanging around, getting in the way. I don’t want to have to change everything.”

John stepped forward, head rattling earnestly. “But I wouldn’t-”

“I don’t want you!” Sherlock bellowed, and the world actually tilted beneath John’s feet as he rattled to a halt. Sherlock’s eyes were dead, only black fury where light once lived. “I- That-” he spat, waving a hand back into the wing. “It was a mistake, and I don’t- I don’t- I don’t want you.”

John’s breath rushed out like he’d been punched in the stomach, but that’s what it felt like, Sherlock’s expression hard and steady as he stared him down across the stage.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, twisting his back to John before he could figure out if it was a lie or not, and then stomped away, John listening to his own breath shake in the shadows long after the door had slammed shut between them.

*****

“Wanna talk about it?”

John blinked, looking up to find Mrs. Hudson hovering above him, smiling sympathetically down at where his paintbrush was hovering over a candy cane, nearly dry now for how long he’d been caught in his trance, staring at Sherlock’s back where he worked with the kids on the stage. “What?” he murmured, and a corner of her mouth twitched in knowing as she turned, her own eyes settling on the man John’s had just left.

“It’s not you,” she said, looking down at him briefly as he frowned. “He was up all night last night,” she continued, eyes returning once again to Sherlock. “I could hear him pacing through the floor. And then, when I saw you two avoiding one another like the plague today…” She trailed off, tipping her head to the side. “Well, it wasn’t that hard to piece together the rest.”

John tried to smile, but probably mostly winced, his chest constricting as he looked back toward Sherlock. “What do you mean?” he asked, blinking up to the woman. “About it not being me?”

Mrs. Hudson smiled, shuffling closer to his shoulder where John knelt on the floor. “Sherlock doesn’t have the best track record when it comes to relationships,” she began, dropping her voice, a sadness settling in her eyes. “There’s only been two, as far as I know—and neither of them treated him very well, if you ask me—but I think it was Victor who really did him in.”

“Victor?” John pried, already hating the man, and Mrs. Hudson nodded.

“They dated for about a year while Sherlock was at university. Victor was older by a year or two, and Sherlock- Well, I think he was mostly just flattered.” She shrugged, folding her arms across her chest. “He was very popular, Victor—and not exactly hard on the eyes, either—but he was horrible. Cheated on him left and right.”

John’s eyes widened with outrage, face snapping back to Sherlock as he mentally went over all the ways he knew how to kill a man without leaving a mark.

“Sherlock knew, of course,” Mrs. Hudson continued, tone as somber as her expression was pained, “nothing gets past him, but he never confronted him. I don’t know why, exactly, I told him to enough, but- Well, I guess he figured he could make it work, could make himself whatever it was Victor was looking for. I never asked, but I’m pretty sure Victor had a lot to do with that.”

John frowned up at her, and she looked down, hesitating a moment before continuing.

“I-I heard them sometimes. Arguing,” she explained, hands shifting where she held her arms. “He was always saying how lucky Sherlock was that he put up with him, how nobody else ever would, and I guess, after a while, it didn’t matter what I said.” She looked up, Sherlock’s twirling figure reflected in her glassy eyes. “He believed it, all of it, and then, when Victor left…” She sighed, shaking her head down at the ground as she closed her eyes, and John turned again to Sherlock, stomach heaving with nausea as his eyes burned with rage. “I think- I think he’s just scared,” she whispered, and John looked up to find himself fixed by her watery gaze. “He doesn’t think he’s worth it, you know? And-And even if he was-”

“He doesn’t think I’d stay,” John concluded, and Mrs. Hudson smiled sadly, nodding down at him. John twisted his neck back to the brunette, watching as he talked to the students, his hands gesticulating through the air as he guided them in correcting their forms, and John couldn’t imagine how he couldn’t see it, couldn’t look in the mirror and know that he deserved the world. “I would’ve,” John said softly, and Mrs. Hudson reached down, touching her fingertips to his shoulder.

“You still could,” she offered, and John’s insides turned cold again, his head shaking as he dropped his gaze back to his work.

“No,” he murmured, dipping his paintbrush again as he returned to the second coat. “He doesn’t want that. Not with me.”

“You don’t know that,” Mrs. Hudson countered, and John scoffed, chuckling bitterly.

“He made it pretty clear,” he muttered, and then snapped his face up, startled as Mrs. Hudson smacked him across the back of the head. “What?” he spluttered, the woman shaking her head disparagingly. “I tried, okay? _I_ wanted that, I wanted everything, and I thought he did too, but-” He stopped, mouth stalling open, and then dropped his face, closing his lips with a swallow. “I guess I was wrong,” he mumbled, tightening his grip on the paintbrush so his hand stopped shaking.

“John-” Mrs. Hudson started gently, but John cut her off.

“I really have to finish this,” he muttered, guilt wriggling in his stomach, but the woman didn’t rise to the unearned ire, only sighing and clicking away, leaving him in the closest to peace he was likely to get for a while.

Soon enough, however, his eyes drifted back up to Sherlock, his hands shaking so badly, he was painting impressionist art rather than stripes, and he gave up, pawning the job off to one of the art students as he made for an early exit.

“Oh, sorry!” someone behind a box of tinsel spluttered as they opened the door John was about to walk through, the pile of red and gold shifting to reveal Mary’s smiling face. “John!” she chirped, beaming at him as she lowered the box below her chin. “You heading out? I was hoping to get some help hanging this.” She rattled the decorations, and John smiled, shaking his head down at the sparkling wares.

“Sorry, I- I have some paperwork I have to get done,” he lied, bobbing his head out to the corridor beyond her. “All that end of term stuff kinda snuck up on me.”

“Tell me about it,” Mary muttered bitterly, rolling her eyes. “I was nearly crushed by an avalanche of papers last night.”

John laughed, nodding as Mary chuckled. “Yeah, well, my job’s at least a little easier than that,” he said, and Mary shrugged.

“I dunno, it’s all probably pretty miserable,” she replied, and John smiled, bobbing his head in agreement.

Something prickled at the back of his neck, and, without thinking, he turned, realizing his mistake the second his eyes met grey ones, piercing even across the entire length of the auditorium. It was the first time Sherlock had looked at him all day, and, even from that distance, it robbed the breath from John’s lungs, and he tore his eyes away, smiling frailly at Mary as he shuffled around her toward the door.

“Well, I’m sure some of the art students would be happy to help,” he offered, waving a hand in gesture to the tinsel. “There’s far too many of them over there painting as it is.”

“Alright, thanks,” she said, tossing a smile at him through the door he was slowly letting drift closed. “Good luck with the paperwork,” she added, and John scoffed, Mary’s responding laugh following him down the corridor as he headed to his office, stepping quickly to put as much distance as possible between him and haunting steel eyes.

*****

The room was bathed in the pale light of his desk lamp, illuminating the papers he had scattered around him, meaningless arrangements of words he could barely even read anymore.

It had been hours since he’d left the auditorium, everyone else likely having already gone home, but he couldn’t quite resign himself to it yet, couldn’t leave the sanctuary of work and return to his small flat, left alone with nothing but his thoughts. Not that he was doing much better now, mind drifting off into imagined scenarios of every possible way things could’ve turned out differently, and, finally, after the third time reading over the same line on the stats sheet in his hand, he set it aside, leaning back in his chair to press at his eyelids.

His office wasn’t near the other teachers’, hidden off in a corner of the school closest to the pitch and courts out back, and, while he usually relished the privacy and quiet, it was torture now, a mocking sort of silence that only made his thoughts louder, self-loathing beating on his brain like a hammer. Except…

He looked up, blinking at the doorway, what he’d assumed was his heartbeat getting louder and closer in the corridor beyond. Frowning, he stood, rounding to the front of his desk, mind skittering over everything from intruder to frantic student who had lost his uniform, but, in the end, it was Sherlock who barreled into the room, the one possibility John hadn’t considered.

They simply stared at one another a moment, Sherlock frozen in the doorway, John still with shock, and then the brunette turned, closing the door with a snap before clicking the lock.

“Mrs. Hudson told me she talked to you,” he said, fixing John with a steady gaze as he took a step closer, expression unreadable.

“I- Yes,” John murmured, shuffling back until he bumped against his desk. “I mean, I- I didn’t _ask_ , she just-”

“She told me what you said,” Sherlock interjected, stepping nearer still, and John swallowed, throat growing tight.

“I-I’m sorry, I-”

“You’re not wrong,” Sherlock said, voice dropping soft, and, for a moment, John couldn’t place it, frowning as he tilted his head. Suddenly, Sherlock smiled, looking at John with a tender fondness that changed his whole face, changed the whole _room_ , shining sun into every shadowed corner, and then he took what little breath John had left, lifting a hesitant hand to stroke gently down John’s jaw. “You’re not wrong,” he repeated, and John gasped, finally recalling, and then Sherlock’s smile blurred, his lips pressing to John’s in a gentle kiss before both his mouth and hand pulled away. “I-I didn’t- I don’t know why I-” Sherlock stammered, shaking his head down between their chest, but John didn’t let him finish, the realization that he wasn’t dreaming demanding immediate action.

He cupped a hand around Sherlock’s neck, pulling the man down as he lifted up, locking their lips together again, but he was decidedly less delicate, immediately tilting his head to deepen the kiss as his arm wrapped tight around Sherlock’s waist.

Sherlock responded eagerly at first, leaning against John’s chest, and then squeezed at his waist, a small warning before he leaned his lips away. “Wait, I-I had a speech,” he panted, and John nodded.

“Mhmm,” he hummed, fingers absentmindedly twisting in Sherlock’s hair, “and it was very good too.” He pushed back up, once again crashing against Sherlock’s mouth, and the man gripped into the collar of John’s jumper, frantically returning the kiss until he yanked himself away.

“No, I-I didn’t even say it, I- It took me an hour!” he bleated, and, though John’s heart skipped a beat at how precious that was, he had other things on his mind at the moment.

“Tell me later,” he offered, leaning in again, but Sherlock pushed him back with a firm hand to his chest.

“It won’t matter later,” he argued, and John sighed.

“It doesn’t matter now,” he snapped, impatient with arousal, and Sherlock’s jaw tightened.

“But you have to know,” he urged, eyes earnest. “You have to understand. I-I never meant-”

“Sherlock,” John interrupted, reaching up to take both the man’s hands in his, holding them together in the small space between them, “I know, alright? I understand. And, even if I didn’t, there’s plenty of time for that later.” He smiled at Sherlock’s skeptical expression, withdrawing one of his hands from the huddle to cup Sherlock’s cheek. “It’s okay,” he insisted, thumbing across Sherlock’s skin, and, slowly, the anxiety in the grey eyes flagged. “Now,” John clipped, smirking smugly as he pushed his hand back into Sherlock’s hair, other arm winding around his waist again as he slowly drew him in, “do you wanna keep talking, or do you want to finish what we started on the stage?” He quirked a brow, watching Sherlock’s eyes go suddenly black, and then the man positively pounced, John’s laugh turning quickly into a moan as Sherlock’s tongue plunged past his teeth. Not to be outdone, he pressed back, swirling his tongue over the roof of Sherlock’s mouth, and, as Sherlock groaned, thrusting up against John’s hips, he temporarily lost his mind, spinning them around and pushing Sherlock down hard onto the edge of his desk.

The brunette let out a soft sound of surprise, catching himself on the edge with his fingertips so he didn’t fall back over the surface, and John lunged down to him, hands fluttering frantic in the air between them.

“Oh my god, I-I am _so_ -”

“Don’t,” Sherlock interjected, lifting his face as he shook his head, and a spike of heat drove straight through John’s gut at the look in his eyes, dark and glinting and not remotely upset. “Don’t apologize,” he breathed, snatching John by the collar as he pulled him in, slotting John’s hips between his knees, and John practically fell on him, lips colliding in a messy smash of teeth and tongue and heated skin.

John groaned, hands moving to Sherlock’s neck as he tipped the man’s face up, holding him tight against his mouth, and Sherlock shuddered, his hand sliding down John’s chest.

He stopped at the buckle of John’s jeans, hooking just slightly beneath the waistband, cool fingers shifting within the soft dusting of hair, and John gasped, thrusting against Sherlock’s hand instinctively. Sherlock chuckled, a dark sound that cracked over John’s spine like a thunderstorm, and he shuddered as Sherlock moved slowly lower, pressing his palm to the bulge in John’s trousers.

John crumpled forward, hands planting on the desk to hold himself aloft as Sherlock rolled his hand, gripping slightly around his cock through the cotton, and then the bastard smiled, eyes glinting smugly up at him, and that just would not do. Before Sherlock’s expression could even so much as begin to look surprised, John latched onto his hips, snapping him forward, sending the man toppling back across the desk with a yelp, and then he groaned, back arching as John ground his cock against the crease of his ass.

“Fuck!” he shuddered out, blinking blearily up at the ceiling, and it was John’s turn to chuckle, hooking Sherlock’s legs over his shoulders to free his hands to drag one down the man’s clothed cock. Sherlock gasped, neck snapping back as John trailed to the base of the hard length, and then slowly pressed back up along the ridge. “John,” he pleaded, breathless as he fumbled blinding in front of him, fingers finding and hooking into John’s waistband. “John, please. Please.” He tugged at John’s jeans, trying to draw him back in for more friction, but John hesitated, drawing his hand away from Sherlock’s body.

“Are you- Are you sure?” John asked, and Sherlock’s eyes slowly focused on him, his head tilting where it rested against the paper on John’s desk.

“Am I sure?” he parroted, frowning as he shook his head, somehow managing to look disparaging even with a prominent erection and his knees over John’s shoulders. “Why do you think I locked the door?” he spluttered, waving a hand past John’s shoulder, and John turned, peering over Sherlock’s calf to the compressed lock in the handle.

He laughed, turning back to the man as he rubbed his hand up and down one of Sherlock’s shins. “You were planning this?” he chuckled, laughing outright again when Sherlock nodded.

“I guess I have a thing for teachers,” he smirked, thumbing open the button of John’s jeans, and John’s fingers dug into Sherlock’s calf as he failed to suppress a shudder, Sherlock slowly grating down his zipper.

“I’m a coach,” John muttered, and Sherlock shrugged, pulling a gasp from his lips as he slipped his fingers through the slit in John’s boxers, tracing fingers over the veins of his cock.

“Close enough,” he murmured, swiping a thumb over the liquid beaded at the tip, and John growled, throwing his hand aside as he pressed Sherlock down against the desk.

He bit hard at the brunette’s bottom lip, Sherlock gasping as he arched against him, and then hastily untucked Sherlock’s purple button-down, making quick work of the fastenings of his trousers. He tried to pull them free, but the angle was all wrong, the curve of Sherlock’s spine still catching the fabric between his body and the desk, and John was forced to step back, lowering the man’s legs to the floor between them.

“Take those off,” he intended to just say, but it came out as more of an order, his voice low and tone curt, but Sherlock didn’t seem to mind, nearly falling to the ground in his haste to scramble off the desk and out of his trousers and pants. John smiled, turning away as he reached into his back pocket, pulling free his wallet. He removed the condom and packet of lube he’d been carrying with him for approximately since he’d met Sherlock, and then pulled his boxers down to reach his cock, rolling the condom down the length of it. He moved to pull the jeans and pants free entirely, planning to remove his jumper right after, but Sherlock stopped him, back to standing in front John’s desk, now entirely bereft of clothing.

“No, don’t,” he blurted, blushing furiously when John quirked a brow at him. “I- Can’t you just…undo them?” he muttered, unable to meet John’s eyes, and John grinned.

“What?” he teased, creeping closer, trailing a hand up the side of Sherlock’s naked hip, biting his lip as he eyed the pale length of the man’s cock. “You have a thing for half-dressed teachers?”

Sherlock choked on a chuckle, shivering as John’s fingers grazed over the flat panes of his abdomen. “No,” he breathed, a corner of his mouth twitching when John looked up. “Coaches,” he amended, and John’s cock twitched within his boxers.

He cleared his throat, Sherlock smiling smugly. “Well then,” he snipped, and grabbed Sherlock by the arm, turning him and pressing him down face first across the desk.

Sherlock gasped, and then moaned, John trailing dry fingers down the crease of his ass before pulling away, keeping one palm on Sherlock’s lower back while he ripped open the lube packet with his teeth.

Tipping a bit onto his fingers, he sat the open packet just beside Sherlock’s hip on the wood, rubbing the liquid between his digits to warm it a bit before dipping down to Sherlock’s body, grazing along the curve of his ass in warning before he swept a circle over the ring of muscle, pressing gently into the tension.

Sherlock groaned, fingers gripping white to the opposite edge of the desk as his legs wobbled, knees weakening, and he sank lower on his elbows, cock bobbing heavily between his abdomen and the wooden surface.

Tentatively, John pushed a single finger inside, holding still when he felt Sherlock tense, but the man quickly relaxed, and he continued his ministrations, twisting and kneading the muscle until he could add a second digit. Sherlock took longer to adjust to that one, but, once he did, he grew unruly, whimpering as he ground back against John’s fingers, and John, almost frustrated, slipped a third finger inside, Sherlock letting out a shout as he threw his neck back.

“God!” he gasped, a slight sheen of sweat glistening down his back as he trembled, and John leaned over him, trailing a hand up his spine as the rough denim of his half-removed jeans rubbed against the back of Sherlock’s thighs, sweat already beginning to build beneath his jumper.

John twisted his fingers, crooking them just so in tandem with a sharp tug at Sherlock’s curls, and the man positively screamed, John silently praying there was absolutely no one left in the building, or within a square kilometer.

“John!” Sherlock pleaded, thrusting back in time with the movement of John’s fingers. “Fuck, John!”

“What?” John hissed, pressing down over Sherlock’s back to breathe over his ear. “What do you want?” he asked, shifting so his cock just brushed the skin of Sherlock’s ass, and the man keened, hips twitching back, trying to find him again. He curled his fingers once more, and Sherlock sobbed, neck falling forward as he gasped against some papers John probably needed, but he wasn’t thinking about any of that, his entire world narrowed down to the words pouring out of Sherlock’s mouth.

“God, just fuck me!” he practically snarled, fingers curling to fists. “Fuck me, god, John, please-” He broke off in a shout as John slipped his fingers free, lining up and thrusting in hard in one swift motion, and Sherlock only trembled and gasped a long moment, getting used to the feeling of John inside him as much as John was getting used to having Sherlock wrapped around him, his tight heat almost too much already after so many nights spent imagining it.

He breathed down over Sherlock’s back, dipping his face to graze his lips over the man’s shoulder, sucking lightly over the ridges of his sweat-sheened spine as he waited, and then, after who would ever know how long, Sherlock shifted tentatively against him, rocking back into John’s hips. John gripped hard into Sherlock’s hips, steadying himself from just taking, from pressing him flat to the desk and taking out every ounce of sexual tension the man had forced him to endure, and, instead, gently withdrew, sliding out to the tip before slowly pressing back inside.

Sherlock’s long moan vibrated through their connection, and John gasped, knees buckling a moment before he rallied, and then thrust the remainder of the way in one quick motion, angling his hips, and Sherlock’s hitching gasp told him he’d found his mark.

From there on out, it was a frenzy, John’s thrusts growing more and more rough as Sherlock’s noises increased, his grip tightening on the edge of the desk, which kept moving, sliding a little with every collision of their bodies. John’s jumper began to stick to his skin, sweat beading on his back, but it was too late to turn back now, and, regardless, who was he to deny the man a kink? His fingertips dug hard into Sherlock’s hips, an anchor to focus his mind and energy so he didn’t spin off before he was ready, determined to unravel Sherlock first, but it didn’t seem like he would have to wait long.

Sherlock was practically sobbing with every smack of John’s hips against his ass, the defined muscles of his back and arms shifting beneath the pale skin, and, as he started to babble nonsense, John knew he was close. “Yes, oh god, oh _god_ , John, yes, yes, yes, _fuck_!”

John leaned down, the sweet smell of Sherlock’s sweat drifting up from his damp curls, and trailed open-mouthed kisses across as much of Sherlock’s neck and shoulders as he could reach, sliding a hand up the man’s thigh in a slow crawl toward his cock.

Sherlock whimpered, trying to turn his hips, to twitch his cock toward John’s hand, but John was methodical, staying just out of reach until exactly when he decided it was enough. “John!” Sherlock panted, desperate and quaking and already broken, and that, as it turned out, was more than enough, John wrapping his fingers around Sherlock’s cock, stripping it fast and hard in tandem with a sharp bite to the man’s pale shoulder. A shout ripped through Sherlock’s throat as he snapped his head back, and then he fell entirely silent, muscles shaking and leaping in spasms as he came, cock twitching and pouring out over John’s hand as it dripped down onto the dark wood of his desk.

It was the most breathtakingly filthy thing John had ever seen, his own climax creeping up on him while he was still in awe, and he cried out in almost surprise as it crested over him, running across his skin in rippling waves of hot and cold that sparked in white flashes  behind his eyelids. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even feel his face to coordinate his mouth _to_ breathe, and, the second it was over, he heaved in a veritable gust of wind, forehead dropping limply to the damp skin of Sherlock’s back as his hand fell loose from the man’s cock.

For a long moment, they just breathed, hitching in gasps here and there with every shift of movement between them, but, eventually, Sherlock shivered, a sure sign the sweat was fading to a chill, and John gently slipped out, wobbling on shaky knees a moment before he turned, moving to a cupboard across the room where he kept extra rolls of paper towels for the locker room bathrooms. Peeling the condom free, he tied it off, tossing it in the bin before fetching the cleaning supplies, tucking himself back into his boxers and jeans as he wiped clean his fingers. He then turned back to Sherlock, ripping off a piece of the towel as he went, but he froze the second his eyes landed on the man.

Sherlock had turned around, leaning against John’s desk at his hip while he looked over the ruined surface, flushed cock slowly softening as it hung between his legs. His chest still heaved with hissing breaths, his skin pale and glittering in the light of John’s lamp, and, as he turned, still-dark eyes focusing on John’s, he tilted his head, flushed lips quirking in a pout. “What?” he murmured, but, rather than answer right away, John stepped forward, stretching up on his toes as he planted a soft kiss to Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock blinked down at him as he pulled away, looking between John’s eyes, perplexed, and John smiled, tracing a thumb along the man’s bottom lip.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered, and Sherlock’s eyes blew wide so adorably, John had to kiss him again. He lingered a moment, adding another brush or two in closing, and then pulled away, trailing a hand down Sherlock’s arm by way of dismissal, and the man stepped aside, snatching up his trousers and shaking them into order before stepping inside the legs. John then turned his attention to his desk, sighing heavily down at the splattered surface, almost loathed to clean it, but maybe Sherlock would let him get a picture first. Or later. Now, _there_ was a thought.

“Yeah, um, sorry about that,” Sherlock muttered, and John turned to him, confused as the man smiled sheepishly, running a hand through tousled curls as he haphazardly pushed his button-down into the waistband of his trousers. “I-I hope none of it was…important.”

“No, not really,” John replied, shrugging as he began gathering up the ruined papers, tossing them into the bin and wiping up whatever remained. “Nothing I don’t have copies of. But, either way.” He smiled over his shoulder as he stowed the paper towels back, returning to Sherlock’s side to tangle their fingers together. “It wouldn’t be more important than this,” he said, lifting their hands to drop a kiss to Sherlock’s knuckles, and the man—there was no other word for it— _giggled_ , shaking his head at John’s lunacy.

“Than clandestine sex in your office?” he mocked, laughing when John nodded eagerly, beaming at him. “Good to know you’re so easy to please,” he muttered, and John chuckled, looking down as he twisted Sherlock’s hand in his.

“I- You know you don’t have to worry about that,” he said, looking up through his lashes to find Sherlock frowning. “Pleasing me. I mean, I- I don’t want you to change. Not anything. I-I like you. Just like this,” he urged, nudging softly at the man’s side. “Just the way you are.” He smiled, watching Sherlock carefully, but the man only looked between his eyes, searching thoroughly before his mouth slowly curled up.

He nodded, gripping tighter to John’s hand, and then pulled his fingers away, snapping them to his mouth to cover a yawn.

“Tired?” he teased, chuckling as Sherlock glared at him.

“I didn’t sleep much last night,” he muttered, giving John a pointed look, and John smiled shyly, nodding in commiseration.

He ducked his head, biting his lip as he shuffled his trainers against the floor, and then realized, all things considered, he had no reason to be uncomfortable saying anything anymore. “Do you think, maybe,” he murmured, Sherlock’s brow furrowing curiously as he waited for him to continue, “you might sleep better if you weren’t…alone?” He peered up through his lashes, watching Sherlock’s expression shift through surprised, relief flooding through him as it settled into amused.

“It may be beneficial,” he said, shrugging a shoulder, a grin playing at the corners of his mouth. “Won’t be able to say for certain without further study, of course.”

“Further study?” John echoed, and Sherlock chuckled, seamlessly taking control again as he strode out, forcing John to scramble for his keys and jacket before he followed.

“Yes,” the brunette confirmed, smiling down at John from the corner of his eye. “I presume you’re not going out of town for the holiday?” he asked, and John stopped in the corridor, forcing Sherlock to a halt a few steps ahead, a puzzled expression on his face as he turned back.

“I- You mean-” he stammered, and then closed his mouth, collecting himself with a swallow. “But that’s-that’s Christmas,” he said, and Sherlock only frowned, the point apparently lost on him. “Wouldn’t you- Well, I mean, don’t you have…plans?”

“Not at present,” he replied, unconcerned. His frown then deepened, and he turned back to John, drawing a step closer. “But, if you don’t want to- I mean, I would understand. It is rather sudden, after all, and you probably-”

“No, I- No,” John interjected, shaking his head. “I just- Well, don’t you have something more important to do? Family to visit? Murders to solve?” he asked, and Sherlock chuckled, smiling softly down at his shoes a moment before he lifted fond eyes.

“John,” he said, tipping his head, “what could possibly be more important?” His smile grew to a grin under John’s flabbergasted gaze, and, as he turned and started walking away down the corridor, John thought he heard a soft chuckle. “Come on,” he called, and John’s feet were moving before he’d even fully registered the words. “The Thai place nearby closes in an hour, and it’s the only place that’s any good in the whole neighborhood.”

“You’ve tried them all?” John supposed, but Sherlock shook his head.

“No. I haven’t even eaten at that one,” he replied, smiling down as John blinked. “I just know. You can tell by the-”

“Bottom third of the door handle,” John interjected, and then laughed, Sherlock snapping his face down toward him with comically wide eyes. John stretched across the space between them, slipping his fingers between Sherlock’s paler ones as he smiled. “Okay,” he agreed with a nod, elaborating when Sherlock tilted his head. “I’ll stay for Christmas. But I’m not getting you a present,” he snapped, pointing his free index finger up at the man, and Sherlock snorted, shaking his head as he looked down to John with a smirk that instantly had his stomach in knots.

“Oh, I’m sure we can work something out,” he replied, grinning as John swallowed, and, if they both walked a little faster after that, neither of them felt the need to mention it.


End file.
